


And On The Seventh Day

by naturesinmyeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gift Fic, Mystery, Quiet Isle, Romance, fan art inspired, gravedigger - Freeform, sansan, silent sister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naturesinmyeye/pseuds/naturesinmyeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A seven chapter story inspired by Kallielef's Silent Sister drawing (a.k.a. The Stranger's Wife and The Maiden and The Stranger). A link to the image is in the chapter notes. </p><p>Sandor has been on the Quiet Isle for  a little over a year. Routine and quiet are his refuge. And in just one week all that changes. </p><p>I asked myself, if both Sandor and Sansa were covered and unable to speak how long would it take for them to recognize each other? I think he would be far more easier to recognize than her. So how long does it take? And how would their reunion go? </p><p>A gift for kallielef for inspiration and ruebellab for her work as a beta on another story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kallielef](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kallielef), [ruebellab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruebellab/gifts).



> Here is a link to the image that inspired the fic
> 
> http://www.deviantart.com/art/The-Maiden-and-the-Stranger-480716924
> 
> Also, I don't really care what age you want to place on Sansa. For this particular fic I imagine her as being 16 or on the very cusp of 16, because I don't want too much time to have passed between them and that seems to be the established "legal" age in Westeros. She's a woman now by everyone's standards in this world.

 The First Day – The Stranger

 

 

Up at dawn. Light; timid, soft and gray. A stretch for sore muscles. Icy water on the face. The same brown robes as yesterday. Morning prayers. A simple meal. An apple for Stranger. Riding on the beast for a time. When the bodies have been made ready and the earth warmed a bit by the sun it’s time to dig. A pick first. The dirt is half frozen from the winds and snow that grow harsher and heavier with each passing week. A smooth handle in calloused hands. A fluid motion over and over again. A shovel. Dirt over the shoulder. Mounds of earth on the side of a trench. Bodies laid to rest and covered. A moment of silent reflection and the job is finished. Another plain meal wolfed down with more relish than the first. Evening prayers. Sometimes a bath. Sometimes a walk. Sometimes nothing at all. And always quiet. Quiet, like anger or wine, could harbor security. Repeat.

 

A year gone by.

 

And then the routine changed.

 

Sandor was knee deep in the ground. When he first took to his current calling he’d dig down till the hole came to his ribs. Now he only went down so far as his upper thigh. He couldn’t dig any farther than that. For all his strength even he couldn’t contend for long with dirt that was nothing more than frozen slabs beneath him. Today there had only been one. Sometimes there were as many as six, though he needed a day and a half for that many. Other times there were none at all. He didn’t wish ill on anyone but he also didn’t like the days when he had nothing to do with his hands. On those days he thought. Too much. He would grow restless and agitated. Movement was good. Purpose was better. It was a lonely job but he’d been lonely most of his life. At least it was quiet now.

 

Sandor liked the quiet his new home offered best. It had been startling at first, almost frightening. His ears would give him false sounds of battle, swords or orders. Late at night, when he was just on the cusp of sleep he swore he heard _her_. A Little Bird calling sweetly in his ear once again. He tried hard to ignore it. That voice. That was something he shouldn’t dwell on. Shouldn’t, yet, he never could stop himself completely. There were women on the Isle, in cabins set far from the men’s quarters. None of them sounded exactly like her but he could hear them sing sometimes. When they sang the Mother’s Hymn he wanted to both fall to his knees and burn the houses down.  He hated those voices. He didn’t like the feelings brought forth by them or the memories they stirred. Quiet was best.

 

Quiet was a reminder of death. And he had died. Or a part of him had. He had yet to figure out what, if anything, he wished to do with what remained. The Hound was nothing but a meal for the worms and though Sandor had been born near thirty years ago, it felt as if he’d just realized the fact upon coming to the Quiet Isle. Who was he really? He didn’t know. And it was easier to dig than to think upon it. There was little that he carried over from his past. He’d confessed and howled and wept many times over in the past year. He was a babe, learning to walk through life all over again with new eyes and fresh ears.

 

Everything had been set aside expect one thing his mind wouldn’t let go of.  Sansa Stark wouldn’t leave him in peace. She might disappear from his mind for a day or a week but never any longer. He’d managed four days this time but, as he took a moment to wipe the sweat from his eyebrows, a tiny red bird settled on a grave nearby. It cocked its head at him and clicked out a noise. He paused in his work to watch it hop along the stone rim and call to him again. Sighing, he reached into the large pocket of his robes for the half loaf of bread that would serve as his second meal and broke off a small corner for the bird. The crumbs scattered in the light dusting of snow and the bird chirped merrily back. No, he’d never be completely free of her.

 

The bird nibbled and sang, bouncing along the ground. For a few moments he lost himself watching the red ball of fluff. It wasn’t the same shade of red as her. Her’s was more rich than bright; like freshly drawn blood. The bird was the shade of raspberries ripened by sunlight but it was close enough to make his stomach clench for one quick second.  Gripping the spade tightly in his hands once again, he made to start digging and take his mind off of things that should remain in the past. A noise distracted him. His actions stilled. The whinny of a horse sounded again far off. Over top of the silhouette of the bird on the ground he could see five black dots on the horizon. There were five people mounted on horses. When they got closer he could see they were all robed. Two were Brothers, brown and tall. The others were shorter, slimmer and covered in creams and black. Silent Sisters. Three of them riding side by side. Covered from head to toe except for the eyes, just like the Brothers.

 

It wasn’t anything new. They had hosted Silent Sisters on the Isle before. The only thing that struck him as odd was that they rode together in a clump rather than in a line. Two of them seemed to be glued to the one in the middle. They were guarding her, he realized, years of training coming back to him. The one in the middle was important. Probably an old Priestess turned Sister, though her profile didn’t seem that of an elderly woman. She sat straight and poised in the saddle. Even through the robes, the curves of a young woman were visible. A crone would have been either round everywhere or stick thin with none of the swell in the saddle the middle Sister possessed. He could make them out decent enough now, trotting past the graveyard on horseback. One of the Brothers gave him a wave and he lifted his hand in response. As the party made their way past, the Sister in the middle looked back at him briefly. He waved his hand at her as well, a polite gesture on his part he thought, but she turned back in her seat without acknowledging him.

 

 _Stuck up little . . ._ , he thought, slamming down on his wondering into the last part of his insult. He tried hard to be a better man, he did, but her swift rejection of an unusually friendly gesture from him stung. He should have known better though. Silent Sisters! Cold as ice they were! It was said they were the Stranger’s wives and they acted like it. Grim, dismal women with blank, sad eyes. The Brothers were a contemplative, repentant group as well but they hadn’t forgotten what it was to be human. They still laughed and smiled and raged. Quietly of course, but they were still men. They didn’t give up on simple acts of humanity.

 

The Sister’s had always seemed a haughty and elite group to him that he didn’t fully understand.  It was hard enough for him to accept the ways of his fellow Brothers. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to speak their vows just yet.  He wasn’t sure of his path and he wouldn’t take any vows unless he was certain he could keep to them. The Elder Brother was patient with him. As long as he remained silent and robed he was allowed to stay. One day a week he was given the gift of speech. It either went one of two ways. Either he had nothing to say or long rants of anger and heartache poured forth from him.

 

The little red bird chirped at him again, hoping for more food and he rubbed at his face. He suddenly felt very tired, watching the Silent Sister’s image dip out of his line of vision. This week the Elder Brother was going to get more than silence from him.

 


	2. The Mother

The Second Day - The Mother

 

 

The following morning passed with the same comforting familiarity as those before it. The only slight difference was the presence of the three Silent Sisters on a bench during morning prayers. They were in front of him, off to the right. All he could see was their backsides and their heads bent in solemn reflection. During the morning meal, they were again far from him and facing away. He finished with his plate before them and left without crossing any of their paths. He could not say why his gaze had continued to drift over their way.

 

There were two bodies for him to tend to on this day. The work went by at its usual pace. He thought about the sun on his back and remembered the feel of summer in King’s Landing. It had always been near intolerably hot to him. Layers of metal, linen and leather left him sticky and reeking at the end of each day. Most nights he slept bare under his sheets to try and cool his body. Winter had its own displeasure to give in the form of stiff, numbed fingers and toes but he felt more at ease in the cold than he did the heat. The one good thing about the balmy days in King’s Landing had been the ladies with their dresses that plunged low and hiked up in all the right places. Once he’d seen a bead of sweat travel down the Little Bird’s neck to slide between her . . .

 

Stop, he chided himself. That was enough of that. Just because she’d begun to fill out didn’t give him the right to ogle at her or to keep on fantasizing about it long after the fact. It’d been too long since he’d had a woman. Though he’d stopped going to the whores shortly after she’d touched his shoulder it didn’t mean he wasn’t still a man with needs. It hadn’t been the same after that night. Sansa had given him a gentle touch freely, with no prompting from him and no promise of coin. It had unnerved him completely and made his few attempts at the brothels after feel hollow in a way he’d never experienced before. After a time he stopped trying all together, taking himself in hand instead and wishing it were kind, delicate hands on him, not his own rough ones.  It was the unsolicited kindness he craved most.

 

Sandor tried reciting a prayer in his head. Over and over again until it was all that was left and lustful thoughts were once again forgotten. He was ready to pack dirt on top of the recently laid out bodies when the bird from yesterday came swooping in. It hopped along the tombstones, as it had the previous day, chirping and trying to get his attention. There were a few minutes to spare. He had saved a sliver of bread in anticipation that the bird might return. Food was scare for animals now and it would be cruel to deny the bird its easy source of afternoon sustenance. The bird sang out happily until all the crumbs were gone. When it finished, it kept flitting from grave to grave, calling out for more food. Sandor tried to shoo it away with his shovel. He didn’t need the thing pestering him all day! It sprang back away from him but then began dancing amongst the graves farther away.

 

The red bird sang and pranced nearby. He glanced over from time to time. Twenty minutes passed and still the bird remained. There was someone walking on the path through the graveyard and Sandor recognized the muted colors of one of the Silent Sister’s robes. She walked slowly, her pace graceful yet seemingly weary as well. It was the middle one. She was taller than the others. When she got closer to his line of sight the little red bird flew up and around her, excited to see someone who might also give it food. It circled her twice and then sat on a grave to perform its dance for her. She stopped suddenly in her tracks. Sandor was smoothing dirt over top of the two freshly dug graves. The woman seemed to not have noticed him at all. Her back was turned to him. He couldn’t make out any of the features of her face.

 

He was a fair distance back from her but he could still see her form start to shake ever so slightly. Then she was on her knees, facing the bird and hugging herself. Not one sound escaped her, but Sandor knew a woman weeping when he saw one. Her body rocked and her chest moved in an erratic pattern. And he was reminded of another girl who had been on her knees before him, trembling, scared and crying. He truly didn’t need this. But it seemed a sin of sorts to let the woman lose herself to whatever sadness held her in its grasp.

 

Shoving the spade down into the dirt, he marched over to her. She heard him approach and turned, swiping at her eyes and looking at him in a worried way. He tired to slow his pace, placing his hands in front of him to show he meant no harm. His large stature loomed over her kneeling one. The grave in front of her was so old and worn the name on it couldn’t even be made out anymore. He thought perhaps it might have been a relative of hers she mourned over or, perhaps, the name on the tombstone was shared with someone she knew. All that could be seen on the grave was the cheerful red bird, looking at them both with curiosity. It chirped and the woman hiccupped before bursting into tears again. Why in all the Seven Hells was a bird making _her_ weep?

 

There was nothing to observe other than her eyes and her hands, wrapped in cloth stained reddish brown with old blood. Blue eyes, he noted. Of course she’d have blue eyes. They were filling with water and he could not say why he did what he did next. He reached into his pocket, and like a different time and place, he offered his handkerchief to a distressed woman. She stared at him mutely, her brow wrinkling. When she didn’t take it he squatted down to wipe at her eyes himself. She kept on staring as if he had two heads. There was no way for her to see his scars. He wasn’t sure why his normal actions should shock her so.

 

Growing uncomfortable with her unblinking stare, he shoved the bit of cloth into her hands. Her eyes darted down to his hand pressing into hers and then she grabbed at him; quick like a striking snake she snatched at his left hand. Her fingers ran across a thin white line in the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. There had been a night long ago, ten years maybe, when he had been drunk and attempted to peel an apple. The resulting cut had stung for weeks while it healed in the awkward space near his thumb.

 

And now the strange woman was tracing one finger over it while her breathing hitched in and out. He shook his hand free, standing and backing away from her. Who did she think she was? Taking such liberties with him! They were both siblings under the Seven and she shouldn’t be touching him is such a manner. Sandor stumbled away from her. She kept looking from him, to the handkerchief, to the bird and back again. She was daft! Maybe that’s why she had been guarded. He should go tell someone she was on her own. Scowling, he made for his shovel and stamped his way back to the storage shed. The Sister still sat on the ground, twisting his cloth in her fingers as he left the graveyard.

 

The Elder Brother was in his study. The holy man looked up as Sandor barged his way in, slamming the door behind him. It was not a day for speaking. Sandor seized a piece of parchment and quill without waiting for permission. He scribbled furiously.

 

_Silent Sister. Tall one. Loose in the graveyard. Lunatic._

 

The Elder Brother read the hastily scrawled note and raised an eyebrow. “What gives you the impression she’s not well?”

 

 _Crying over a damned bird. Near hysterical. Looks at me funny. Touched me._   The Elder Brother read over his shoulder, clicking his tongue over the curse and clearing his throat after Sandor had written the last bit. Sandor groaned.

 

_On the hand, old man. She wouldn’t let go! More whore than Sister!_

“Clam down,” the Elder Brother reprimanded, “you’re losing focus and falling back on old habits.”  Sandor grumbled and sighed but sat back in a chair and waited. “The Sister you speak of, the taller one?” – Sandor nodded – “She’s not a lunatic, Sandor. She’s being protected and hidden. I had a chance to communicate with her two companions. I will speak with the woman herself later today. I feel she may have been seeking solace and her memories caught up with her. That’s all. A woman remembering. You were much the same when you first came here. Recall the first time a bird sang outside your window while you healed? Or the time Brother Arkin brought that torch too close? The time cook served lemon cakes?”

 

Sandor stood and thumped his fists down on the Elder Brother’s desk with a solid bang.  He moved so fast his chair went crashing back and down behind him. Enough, his actions said clearly. The Elder Brother eyed him up but closed his mouth while Sandor huffed angrily through his nose. Once a minute had passed, Sandor lowered his eyes in apology and made for the door.

 

“I haven’t seen you like this for some time,” the Elder Brother called to him. “Tomorrow is our day for confessions. If I were you I would pray and ask the Seven why this incident has affected you so. We can discuss it then if you like.”

 


	3. The Father

The Third Day – The Father

 

 

_Sandor was sitting in his bed. It was another half hour until dawn but he had woken early and chose to wait for the view of the sunrise through his window. Gray and pink light began to filter into his room. The sky turned blue with hints of glowing white around the shadowed clouds.  The colors blended to muted oranges and yellow. When the sun peeked out above the horizon, a burning red burst, the colors crept over the land, to the Isle and right through his window. Except it wasn’t light anymore. It was fire! The red was a living sheet of flame that consumed the wall in front of him within seconds._

_Panicked, he threw himself off the bed to run for his door. It was too late! The whole room was engulfed in flames! All four walls were built of nothing but overlapping columns for fire and smoke. The bed was gone! The floor was hot beneath his feet and he could hear the roar of flames around him. The fire stayed where it was, trapping him in a box of his deepest fear. The noise and heat became too much for him and he sank to his knees, placing his hands over his ears to try and drown out the sounds. His heart beat as fast as a galloping courser’s. His eyes swept madly around the room time and time again to look for a chance at escape._

_The flames in front of him parted. Not enough for him to get through. The gap was only a few hands wide. Three great black crows flew in from behind the fire. The two on the sides flew right past him and away through the fire behind him. The middle one was larger than the other two. It stayed behind to land in front of him. It squawked and screeched at him. He couldn’t tell what it wanted. He slid his hands from his ears, down across his face and discovered tears. The bird screamed at him shrilly, flapping its way onto his shoulder where it began pecking at his head. It hurt! The damned thing tore at his flesh while he swung his arms wildly around, trying to find refuge from the feathered monster. And all the while the fire continued to burn._

_The bird’s cries and his mingled together for what seemed like hours. There was blood running down his jaw as well as water. And then suddenly it stopped. Instantly the pain and noise was gone. His eyes had been shut tight during the bird’s assault. Lifting his head, he opened his eyes to see a girl holding the bird still in her hands. She had red hair and blue eyes._

_“Little Bird?” he croaked, gulping and trying to regain his breath. It was her. He knew her even through a fresh film of tears that covered his vision. Sansa threw the bird high up into the air. It disappeared though he knew not how. Then she smiled at him and the flames around him stopped. The room was as it always had been; compact, snug and intact. Sansa was on the floor in front of him, mirroring his kneeling pose. Her hand reached out between them and his lungs froze waiting for the contact of her fingers. One more second and she’d touch his scars._

Sandor woke almost violently. He jerked up into a sitting position, gasping for air with one hand on his burns. It had seemed so real. _She_ had seemed so real. He had wanted it to be real. He trembled and rubbed at his face until the true dawn of day arrived. 

 

Once morning did make itself known, Sandor was quick to dress. He skipped both the morning meal and prayers, not caring in the least if he were scolded for either. Sandor sat himself on a bench outside the Elder Brother’s study to ensure that he would be the first to speak to the Isle’s main source of council. There were things on his mind that needed said. If he could say them out loud, give the words life by breathing them, then perhaps they would die off and leave him in peace. His dream had only solidified his thoughts from yesterday; the new Sister was making him think on the Little Bird and the two were becoming strangely and dangerously connected in his mind.

 

“Are you feeling better?” the Elder Brother asked of him an hour later while seated at his desk opposite of Sandor.

 

Sandor let out a chuckle that wasn’t the least bit humorous.  He tapped at his head while he spoke. “She’s up in here again. Chirping and pestering!”

 

“You mean Sansa?” the Elder Brother clarified knowing that it was doubtful Sandor would speak of another woman. Their talks had circled around the daughter of house Stark before.

 

“Aye. Dreamt about her last night.”

 

“What sort of dream?”

 

“A nightmare. Fire all over the place. And a damned bird pecking at my face. But then Sansa . . .” – he stumbled over the name and the feelings the dream had stirred – “. . . she made it go away. All of it. She . . . she saved me from it.”

 

It was a hard thing to admit; the feeling of safety she could provide for him in his dreams. Sandor was a warrior by trade and a killer many times over. There wasn’t a thing in the world he thought himself capable of fearing besides fire until Sansa had come along. Then he’d started to feel _something_. Something sacred and hidden deep down inside him. It was terrifying and he often shouted at her in his confusion. It was hard to comprehend how she could make him feel utterly secure and in the midst of peril at the same time.

 

The Elder Brother was silent, indicating that Sandor should continue. The holy man only seemed to give advice once he was certain all details had been leeched from a person. Sandor had shared more of his thoughts and feelings on Sansa than he had any actual events. Those were personal memories to be hoarded and analyzed alone. But it seemed he’d need to share at least one memory in order to allow the Elder Brother to understand his current agitation.

 

“The girl, she was mistreated under Joff’s rule,” –the Elder Brother gave a slight inclination of his head as he listened- “I watched her suffer and cry more times over than I can count. He had her beaten and stripped down to her teats! And I didn’t do a damned thing about it.”  There was anger creeping into Sandor’s voice. He couldn’t help it. Every time he thought on how useless he’d been to her over the years it struck a chord of self hatred within him. “The Sister yesterday. She looked just like the Little Bird. Blue eyes and all. They looked the same.”

 

“How so?” the Elder Brother questioned.

 

Sandor sighed, combing his hair through his fingers. It was so damned difficult to put words to the feelings. “She looked frightened. The Sister. But . . . also not. Like she could look right into me. There was fear and no fear. I don’t know! She looked at me like Sansa would!”

 

“Are you angry that the Sister would tread on Sansa’s memory or are you angry that Sansa did not fully despise you?”  

 

A long moment passed before Sandor spat out his answer. “Both.”

 

“One at a time then. The Sister can not help who she is or how she acts when she thought herself alone. You stumbled upon a private moment that twisted its way into one of your own private moments. Do not spread your hurt over her. It is not her fault nor is it fair of you to do to her.”

 

“Secondly, you’re angry at a girl for not outright hating you?” The Elder Brother’s words were serious but Sandor caught the amused tone in his voice. “You’ve raged enough over not being accepted by those around you. Why does the girl anger you when she does only what you want of anyone but her?”

 

“She shouldn’t! Not her!”

 

“That is for her to decide and determine. Not you. You do not dictate to others what they feel. Besides, she is long gone is she not? Why do you dwell on her feelings for you?” Sandor couldn’t answer. The truth of it was too hard to admit to himself, let alone out loud to another person. The Elder Brother took mercy on him though, his eyes sparkling.  
“If ever the two of you should meet again, I pray that you will find a way to tell her what she means to you. If nothing but to give your soul a chance at true peace. I do not think the lady would scorn you.”

 

“You weren’t there. You don’t know,” Sandor said darkly.

 

“This is true,” the Elder Brother said calmly. “Still, there is always a second chance for everyone.”

 

“What would I do, eh?” Sandor challenged his voice raising and his disgust apparent. “Bend at the knee in front of her? Beg her forgiveness? Might be I’d end up her shield,” he sneered. “Might be we’d marry and have ourselves a clutch of nestlings one day, hmm? The maiden and the fucking snarling dog! They’d write songs about it! Is that what’s going to happen, old man? You’re as stupid as she is! None of that will happen. There’s no sense in saying a word to her! She’ll not give what I want.”

 

“Is that what you want?” the Elder Brother replied, his own voice loud and thundering, the past soldier in him showing for moment. “To forever sit and wallow in what you think you’ll never have? Or do you want to try for it? I won’t sit here and listen to you moan on about how wretched your life is when you won’t try for something better. Yes! Beg her forgiveness! Tell her you love her! And if she denies you you’re no worse off than you are now. You’d be better off! You’d know once and for all and could come to terms with it. And if she did return your feelings? What is it you want most? Acceptance, tolerance, love? If she doesn’t deny you, you’d have your pick of everything. “

 

Sandor shook his head, slowly, in the grips of true sadness. “She’s a long time gone anyway. What does it matter? You said so. Last month was it? She was to be married off to that heir? She probably forgot about me the minute I left.”

 

“You can not see the future, Sandor,” the Elder Brother tried to comfort him. “I have heard no news of a wedding. Yes, there were plans but truly I have heard nothing to indicate she had to go through with it. Please, don’t lose faith. Sometimes the Gods listen. Most of all to those in true need of their kindness.”

 

………………………………………………………………………………….

 

The final meal tasted better to Sandor that evening now that he had spoken of his thoughts. The Elder Brother’s advice was appreciated for the most part. The creamed fish stew and dense bread sat well on his stomach and he even indulged in a few cups of mead. After the third one he found himself staring at the backside of the taller Sister once again.

 

The Elder Brother was right. He hadn’t been fair to the new arrival. His past was not her doing or her fault. Still, he felt a pang within him when he looked at her. Her form was so very close to the one he remembered stealing glances at in the hallways of the Red Keep. Would he ever have the courage to face her again if given the chance? The Elder Bother spoke as if Sansa hadn’t married. The well of hope within him was nearly dry but what little was left to scrape off the bottom was enough to keep him going.

 

Everything seemed well in the common room until the woman rose from her seat to leave. She carried her dishes with her to place in one of the washing tubs near the doors.  He turned his head away, pretending he’d never looked at her. Keeping his head tilted down he continued on eating his meal. Then there was a sharp clank and clatter right beside him. He was on the edge of a bench closest to the main walkway. His scarf was off as were all the other novice Brothers.  It was impossible to eat otherwise.

 

Sandor’s head snapped up to witness the blue eyed Sister standing in the midst of a mess. She’d dropped everything in her arms. A bowl had broken and sprayed the hem of her robes with the last bites of her stew. A wooden goblet that had held wine spun on its side while pieces of bread and cheese rolled and bounced across the floor. She was staring him right in the face.

 

Several Brothers leapt up to help her clean up the muck. The woman didn’t budge. Sandor was certain she wasn’t breathing any longer. He fumbled with the edges of his scarf and looped it back around his face. He’d obviously given the Sister a shock. This was not the first time he’d made a woman drop her things at the sight of him. It wasn’t the worst reaction he’d drawn out of a person but it had been a long time since someone had been so blatantly frightened by him. He shrugged at her and bent at the hip to grab her wine cup. He held it out to her, waiting. The life rushed back into her. She drew in a sharp breath, squinted her eyes at him and then she ran! Lifted up her robes and tore out of the dining hall.

 

_The fuck was that about?_

 


	4. The Smith

Day Four – The Smith

 

Another day started much like all the others. Stranger was ill tempered during their morning ride and Sandor soon decided to call their routine to a halt. The beast was still an arse sometimes, even to him, and there was no point in trying to force the animal. He’d end up thrown or kicked if he pushed the stallion too hard. After he had stalled Stranger, Sandor went to the hut that stored bodies to be buried and the tools to do so.

 

There was one Brother inside, stripping two corpses. Sandor helped with the preparation some days though it wasn’t expected of him. That task was usually left to those newest on the Isle; it was a true act of penance to wash and care for the dead and was saved for those most in need of it. Sandor had done his fair share when he first arrived and now he only did so when it was needed or he was so bored he thought there nothing better to do with his time.

 

Without speaking, Sandor went to fill a bucket with water from a well. He knew the next step was washing the bodies down with rags after they had been made naked. After that they would patch up anything that needed stitching and place simple, almost sheer robes of white on the bodies if they could be afforded. If not, a sheet tied with rope near the head and feet would do. As Sandor approached the hut though, he saw his companion Brother leaving. The Brother clasped his hands together as if in prayer which Sandor took to mean the Elder Brother was near. Then the novice traced the curves of a woman in the air and gave a meaningful nod towards the hut before waving good-bye. Inside, Sandor found the Elder Brother and the tallest, blue eyed Sister. _Shit._ Sandor let his bucket fall to the ground with an echoing bang.

 

“Sandor . . .” the Elder Brother started, a hint of warning in his voice, “the Sister has asked for a task to keep her hands busy during her stay. We both thought it fitting she partake in a chore she is already used to doing. Under your supervision of course. You are our Gravedigger and the one in charge, but she can be of use.” 

 

The tall Sister’s eyes scanned him while she nervously linked her fingers in front of her. Sandor wanted to kick over the bucket at his feet. Why was this being done? He’d accepted the Sister’s presence on his Isle but that didn’t mean he wanted to spend all bloody day with her! But the Elder Brother seemed to want to play at something. Alright, then. He could play as well. He still had some tricks up his sleeve that were sure to send the Sister running away by the end of the hour.

 

Snatching up the bucket from the floor, Sandor advanced on the woman. He thrust the slippery wooden container into her hands. Water sloshed up and over the rim to splash her clothes.

 

“Sandor!” the Elder Brother chided. “Be kind!” The Silent Sister kept the bucket in one arm and touched the sleeve of the Elder Brother’s robe to gain his attention. She shook her head lightly at him, letting out a quiet breath of air. It’s alright, her actions seemed to say. Then she placed the bucket next to one of the corpses on a table and grabbed a cloth. She started to dab at her chest with it, trying to wick some of the moisture away.

 

“She’s staying,” the Elder Brother said with conviction. “If you truly want her out from under you, help her finish the task.” And with that he left. Sandor was alone with two dead bodies and one living.

 

The dead ones were laid out, one male and one female. The Brother from earlier had managed to strip them and cloth lay over their respective private areas. Dunking a rag into the bucket, the Silent Sister started in on the woman. The Elder Brother was right; if he helped, that would finish the chore faster and send her on her way. Sandor grabbed for a cloth as well, soaking it in the bucket and carrying it over to the dead man. They worked in silence. Of course they worked in silence, he snorted to himself. What other choice was there? 

 

The Sister worked facing him. When he glanced at her he noticed she was barely paying any attention to her work. Her hand scrubbed listlessly at the woman on the table, while she looked up at him. She kept watching him with sad eyes. After a time she looked almost worried; her eyebrows wrinkled with distress. Probably can’t get the sight of me out of her head, he thought. So he turned his back to her for the remainder of the time they worked.

 

Each body was in relatively good shape. There were no wounds to pack or stitch. Sandor pointed to a cabinet and the Sister found sheets within it. She spread them next to the bodies and he helped her roll them onto the crisp white linen. When they had to shove at the man, their shoulders brushed.

 

Once each corpse had been wrapped and tied in their shroud, he hefted the man onto his left shoulder. He bent down by the woman’s body, grunting and swinging his head in its direction. The Sister understood, pulling the body as best she could over his other shoulder. He could manage carrying two bodies but it made it difficult to try and reach for his shovel.

 

Noticing his struggle, the Sister slipped next to him to grab the spade and pick. She held the door open for him and gestured for him to go through first. He grumbled but did so. She was being helpful. Annoying but helpful. He stalked through the grave yard half hoping he’d lose her on the way but she remained close by, having to jog at times to keep pace with him. When they made it to his chosen spot she waited for him to drop the bodies he carried before holding out both tools to him. Her eyes looked pleased and eager. He growled as he snatched the pick from her extended arm. Would nothing work to send her running?

 

The Sister bounced back a few paces from him and leaned on a gravestone. Was she going to watch him? What the hell for? It was going to be nothing but sweat and dirt for the next four or five hours. He waved a hand at her in dismissal. She shook her head in response. Angered, he walked over to her and turned her around bodily before giving her a small push in the direction of the main house. If she was in need of a task there was certain to be dishes to wash or bread to bake.

 

She spun back around, stomping her foot into the frozen ground. Her brow was creased into a terrible scowl. She shook her head at him again, crossing her arms over her chest. She wanted to stand in the cold for hours? Fine! He wasn’t her keeper or her father. She could freeze her teats right off for all he cared!

 

That day he set a record, completing two burials in three hours; heated energy driving him hard to finish and have her gone. When he was done with his task he went to place his shovel down to catch his breath for a moment, but her hands were on the handle first. She patted his hand and took up both tools. Then she left him, taking the spade and pick back to the small shed herself, saving him the trouble.

 

Sandor was left confused, his back sore and his body sweating profusely. Why was she being so accommodating? And to him of all people? Did she not know who he was? Was it duty or him that was spurring her actions? He didn’t know and he hated not knowing the reasoning behind something worst of all. And there was no way to outright ask her. Even though he had taken no true vows of silence he felt guilt at considering speaking on a day not set aside for such. And if he were to break his code and talk to her it wasn’t as if she could speak back. It was a frustrating situation and he wondered what the lesson was that the Elder Brother was trying to teach him. Placing her with him had been done on purpose. He was sure of it. But to what end and how long would he have to wait to find out?

 

……………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

_The cold stones behind him dug into his back. The rocks had been set down by the hands of men hundreds of years ago to form a wall. Now green moss sprang forth from every nook and crack in the masonry. Time had worn some spots smooth but not the ones currently pressing against his skin. It was uncomfortable, and yet, he found that he didn’t mind at all. Not when his lap was full of Little Bird. Not while the sun warmed his face and a cool breeze kept sweat from beading on his brow. Not while she smiled at him._

_Stranger was off in the distance, feeding on wild grasses and nickering at small rodents here and there. Sansa was quiet and he followed her example. His crisscrossed legs had made a space for her to sit. She didn’t lean into him, instead choosing to face him and continue on smiling. He had no idea why. What had he done to earn smiles from her?_

_“I’ve missed you,” she finally said._

_His heart swelled with strange feelings. They weren’t bad. They were warm and felt oddly like mercy. He would tell her so. She’d made her way to him some how and the Elder Brother was right. He might damn himself to a life of solitude but it was better than the agony of not knowing. His lips parted to speak and . . . no words escaped him. Nothing but garbled, unintelligible sounds. He had no tongue! Gone! It was gone and he was left without the power of speech!_

_It wasn’t fair! His eyes started to burn with shame and humiliation. All this time he’d fought against speaking to her. Now he had the chance and his body betrayed him! He tried again, grabbing at her shoulders, trying to force her to understand the feelings he carried for her._

_Sansa looked him deep in the eyes. He saw understanding. Not pity or sorrow, only understanding. She’d looked at him like that before. The night he told her of his burns. The night the water caught fire._

_“It’s alright,” she hushed. “I know.”_

_He struggled to hold back the flood of tears threatening to spill. Blinking furiously he looked away. Her eyes on him were a fire that burned far worse than the one of his youth. Her hands smoothed over his doublet while she hummed in reassurance. His eyes roamed to the clouds above him. If she would stay, if they could stay like this always, he would do anything; give anything to have it remain so. Once he had thought he wanted her newly developing woman’s body only. He tried to convince himself that’s what all the chaos inside him was when he thought of her. But it wasn’t true. He knew it now. Given the choice between bedding her once and never seeing her again or sitting here, till the end of his days, in the meadow of sun and flowers with her on his lap and the promise of nothing more, he knew which he would choose._

He woke to pitch blackness. It was still the middle of the night. There were stars to be seen outside his window. There was warmth in his breeches and a chill on his pillow where moisture had gathered. 


	5. The Warrior

Day Five – The Warrior 

The corpse in front of them had started to go green. A queasy blue green of decay. This one was at least two weeks old, found half buried in silty, black mud on the banks of the Isle. The skin had started to pull back from the skull and its teeth were bared in a horrible death grin. One of the eyes was missing. It had been a man. Once. 

Several times during its cleaning the tall Silent Sister had gagged. Sandor grinned behind his scarf. This was certain to get rid of her! His poor attitude and gruff manner of yesterday hadn’t worked but the stinking corpse with a gash in its belly was sure to do the trick! He waited for her to retch or flee. There wasn’t much in the form of entertainment or excitement on the Isle. Trying to get under the Silent Sister’s skin was the most fun he’d had in months. It was almost like teasing the Little Bi-

Sandor, suddenly drew himself up to his full height, angered at where his thoughts had taken him. She wasn’t the Little Bird! No one was. How dare she try and pretend at being his . . . well, his something! 

The body was clean and the Silent Sister stood unmoving, looking at the gapping hole that was now the corpse’s stomach. Taking up a pail of sawdust from a corner, Sandor put it near her hands. What little skin he could see on the woman went as green as the dead man in front of her. Sandor rolled his eyes at her. Some Stranger’s wife she was! A bit of gore and she turned craven? They’d be there all day if he had to wait on her. 

Rolling up his sleeves, he waved his hand at a shelf on the wall. While he began stuffing sawdust into the space that had once held blood and guts, the Sister pulled down a large needle and thick twine. When he was finished, he washed his hands in the bucket of water and waited on her. Surprisingly, she took to the sewing with ease. Her fingers threaded the needle swiftly and tied a secure knot. She stitched the corpses belly as she would cloth. Her movements were almost graceful. When she was finished she was left with a long length of string hanging from the dead man’s skin. Her eyes darted around the room looking for something to cut it with. Pulling out his small knife, nothing more than a tool, he made a motion for her to hold the string tight. She did so and he cut it for her. 

“Thank you, Sandor,” she said politely. 

His heart stopped. It fucking stopped. Then it started again with a thump and a slosh that made his head spin. His vision swam. The knife in his hand clattered to the floor. 

“Is it alright if I call you Sandor?” the Sister asked with worry. It was Sansa’s voice he heard under the Sister’s veil. Sandor Clegane froze in absolute terror. 

There was the sound of his lungs taking in air and pushing it back out again. He was cold. Colors blurred. Bright light struck his eyes. 

He was outside and under a tree; a massive, maple in the middle of the graveyard. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten there. The world had gone fuzzy. His feet had carried him but he had no control over them. He was gulping for air, pulling at the collar of his robes. They were choking him! He couldn’t breath! He’d gone mad! Had to have. Silent Sisters didn’t speak! And they didn’t have blue eyes and sweet voices just like the Little Bird’s. His hands were pressed flat against the bark of the tree. Leaning into the stance, one leg forward, head bowed and arms straight out in front of him, he tried to regain some sense of balance. There were footsteps behind him.

“Sandor!” Sansa’s voice called again. He laughed but it wasn’t a laugh. It was the giggled twitter of the insane. The blood in his veins grew louder in his ears with each beat of his pulse. What started as the sound of footfall in a fresh inch of snow turned into the deafening crash of an entire army marching. 

There was a hand on his forearm. A tiny hand. Slight and delicate and one that sure as hells hadn’t seen any hard work in all its life. Why hadn’t he noticed before? His opposite hand crossed over the one she touched. Trembling fingers tugged at the veil over her face. Gods, it was her! How? 

He hardly noticed that he’d gripped her chin in his hand. His was so unlike hers; meaty and covered in calloused roughness. Turning her face this way and that he studied her. It was Sansa alright, only it wasn’t. She’d gotten older! Not much, but there were changes to her face. The edges of her jaws stuck out more as did the bones set high on her cheeks. The child’s layer of fat had all but melted away, leaving a lean woman’s face in its place. No volume had been stolen from her lips. Those were still as plump and ripe as ever. She had a new splatter of freckles on her nose, as if her pale skin had finally seen a few harsh afternoons under the sun. And there was a white line of missing hair through her left brow. He couldn’t recall her having that before. Absently he stroked it with a finger. 

“A cat,” Sansa explained, her voice airy as wispy, white clouds, “got me after I tried to be nice to it. Nearly clawed my eye out. You’d think I would have learned to stop approaching wild animals.” She shrugged. “I don’t like giving up.” 

Sandor dropped his hands from her immediately, once again startled by her voice. “It is you under there, isn’t it?” Sansa laughed. Was she teasing him? “Won’t you say something?” 

He shook his head at her, too frightened to open his mouth. Maybe this was only another dream. A highly realistic dream. A dream he could hear and touch and smell. 

“Oh!” The exclamation was pert and light, just like her. Her mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ as it left her mouth. “Are you . . . that is, have you taken vows of silence?” 

He shook his head again; faster and with force.

“But you won’t speak to me?” she pouted.  
His throat worked under the cover of cloth. Memories, thoughts and words all fought to free themselves and ended up strangling him. What could he say? He’d only just decided a day ago he would try explaining himself to her at some point in the future. There hadn’t been any time to practice the words before the reality of her had been thrown at him. All he could do was shake his head again, stupidly, while he looked at the ground. It was too much. Too much shock. Too much joy. 

“It is good to see you,” Sansa told him, taking hold of his wrist, gently. She squeezed at it when she said the word “good”. Then she let her hand fall and waited, her eyes full of hope. He scratched at the back of his hand. Now that he had refused to speak it seemed the easiest thing to keep on doing for the time being. 

“Shall we finish the job?” Sansa asked, letting her gaze fall back in the direction of the shed. He nodded his head, glad for the distraction. Work was good. Work kept thoughts and feelings at bay. He walked ahead of her. It was easier if he didn’t have to look at her. 

Back inside he almost smacked a hand to his forehead. There was still work to be done; that was true enough. But there was no way in all Seven Hells he was going to allow Lady Sansa Stark to put her hands on such a vile lump of flesh. He grew furious at himself for unknowingly letting her do so earlier. 

Sansa walked past him and went to the cabinet that contained sheets for the corpses. She’d placed her veil back over her face. When she slid past him again he snatched the cloth out of her hands, shaking his head and letting the disapproval shine through in his eyes. 

“I can do it,” she said simply. He shook his head with more force, grasping one of her hands and letting his thumb stroke the palm for a moment. Only a moment that seemed like more as he tried to memorize the plane of padded softness his thumb skimmed over. He turned her hand over within his own, pointing first to her palm and then his, willing her to see the difference between the two of them. 

“You were fine with letting me help when you thought I was only a Sister,” Sansa argued. Then he saw understanding take her as she compared their hands. “Alright,” she said, backing up from him and the table, “but I can do this. I’ve been doing this sort of thing for a month now.” 

He rolled the dead body up himself. If she tried to approach the table he growled. On her third attempt she put her hands up in front of her. “I only want to get a look at you. It’s been over a year. Nearly two.” 

As if he didn’t already know that! As if he hadn’t kept track of the days in his mind. He threw the leftover rope he’d used to bind the corpse down to the ground. He felt the splintered work bench under his palms as he pressed them down into it, trying to steady himself and his anger. She had no right showing up like this! Doing this to him with no warning at all. 

 

“Why are you angry?” she asked, “I thought you’d be pleased.” 

I am, he thought. Pleased and more, and you’ve no reason to want to hear that from me; a beaten, silenced old dog. I’m not the man you remember. You’re looking at a ghost; a husk of what was. You think there’s still a dark knight here but there’s nothing but regret and remorse and a fucking half crippled leg to boot. You’ve come looking for someone dead. Move on. Please, move on before I have a chance to start feeling again. 

“I was pleased when I realized you were here,” she whispered. 

He picked up the corpse in his arms instead of saying anything out loud, pointedly ignoring her words. They’d both be damned if he took her last statement to heart. The door to the hut hung open a hand’s width; neither one of them had remembered to shut it. Pushing his foot into the gap, he managed to open the door on his own. Trudging back out to the grave yard he heard the clink of his tools behind him. When he reached a suitable spot, Sansa was there to place the pick in his hands. There was silence for a long time as he worked. 

“Don’t you want to know where I’ve come from?” Her voice was quiet but it sounded like a scream to him ripping through the silence of the Isle. 

He gave a half shrug as he dug. Didn’t really matter to him where she’d come from. She was here now. That was what mattered. 

“Do you want to know where I’m going?”

That got his attention. She was going? When? Where? He nodded his head, trying hard not to look too alarmed. 

“Essos,” she stated. “Soon. Well, as soon as we get word from our scout that the road is clear and there is a ship that will have us. A week. Maybe two and then I’ll have to move on.”

A week! But she’d just arrived! She couldn’t just leave him now that she’d entered his life once again. His thoughts of only an hour ago were lost and forgotten. He didn’t want her to go. Not at all. She couldn’t jump into his life like this and right back out! He slammed the shovel down into the dirt. It stood ram rod straight in the air. 

It was too late! He’d seen and heard her and now he couldn’t bear to have her leave. He wondered if she’d felt the same when he’d left her. If so, he’d done her a terrible injustice by leaving, but then again, he’d also sullied her by staying in her chambers. The image of a knife and the sound of a forced song worked its way into his mind. How else might he have harmed her if he’d taken her with him by force as well? How quickly would the cunt King have let him die if he had stayed?  
He took up the shovel once again, tossing dirt onto the corpse with careless motions. His task was finished without another word from her. They were back to playing silent siblings. But how long could his silence possibly last?


	6. The Crone

The Sixth Day - The Crone

 

“You knew!” Sandor roared, crossing the threshold of the Elder Brother’s study. “You bloody well knew the whole time!” His anger had been building since the previous evening. He had tried to shoulder his way into the Elder Brother’s rooms yesterday, to settle the matter between them, but found only empty space. The Brother had taken to one of his hiding holes in the woods for a day of prayer and fasting, and wouldn’t return until the morrow. Sandor had been left to stew in his growing resentment for an entire night and half a morning. There was an edgy paranoia that had sprouted from the anger.

 

“I did,” the Elder Brother spoke back calmly, letting his quill drop to the table. “Today is not a day for speaking, Sandor” the holy man tried to remind him.

 

“Piss on that! I haven’t taken your vows!”

 

The Elder Brother sighed heavily and pushed back in his chair. Sandor paced the room like a wild stallion made to stand in a stall for days. The urge to throw, smash or beat something or someone was terrible inside him. The Elder Brother had known she was Sansa. Sansa had known he was who he was and he’d been left in the dark. It felt as if there were some large joke being made at his expense.

 

“Sandor, please, have a seat. We can talk,” the Elder Brother used a neutral tone to address him.

 

“How long?” he asked, doing the exact opposite of what was suggested; gripping the back of a chair and tearing the scarf from his face.

 

“Since the day she arrived. I knew there were Silent Sister’s coming seeking shelter. I didn’t know the Lady was part of the party until later that first night. And I didn’t have a chance to speak to her until the second. No one’s been hiding anything from you.”

 

“You knew five days ago and you didn’t tell me?! How is that not hiding?”

 

“She asked me not to tell you,” the Elder Brother explained. That revelation made him sit in his chair! It took the wind right out of him. There was the feeling of defeat in that moment.

 

“Why?”

 

“I think the Lady could answer that better than I.” Sandor only grew more agitated at the Elder Brother’s words.  “Sandor, she wanted to reunite with you on her own terms. I think she was hoping you might recognize her. Did she speak first or you?”

 

“She did. Yesterday while working. I didn’t say anything back.”

 

“Why ever not?”

 

“Because _someone_ didn’t prepare me for it!” he bellowed. “You can’t!  . . .she can’t! You’re both playing at something!”

 

“No one is using you, Sandor,” the Elder Brother snapped, tired of his tantrum.  “No one is keeping things from you nor plotting behind your back. This is not King’s Landing. I’m not Tywin or Gregor and she’s not Cercei. Stop putting the masks of the past on our faces. Both of us care for you. She came here seeking refuge for a few weeks. She never thought she would see you again. In all honesty she thought you were dead, though she liked to think you had found happiness somewhere. All of this she told me. There was joy in her voice when she asked if it was truly you. Then she asked me to keep silent until she felt the time right to reveal her self. Her intent was always to say something to you and she did. She could have left the Isle and you would never have been the wiser. But she chose to speak to you, alone. Without her guards. Will you stop accusing and look at what is in front of you!”

 

Sandor ceased his next shouted rebuttal. Sansa had come to him unguarded. That had been stupid. Not because he would have harmed her but because she didn’t know that. Not for certain. Or did she? Did she have some sort of faith and trust in him?

 

“What does it mean?” he asked, his voice seeping anger out and filling with confusion.

 

The Elder Brother rolled his eyes at him, an uncommon gesture. “It means the Lady sees you as both protector and friend. Stop wasting time, you great lummox. I’ve told you already, I don’t believe the Lady would scorn you.”

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………

 

 

The Sept of the Quiet Isle was different from the ones Sansa was used to, though she had to admit there were few she had taken note of in her life. Her interest in them ceased the same day as her father’s life did. The richly littered, jeweled alters of King’s Landing were a place she only glanced at in passing. There was always the heavy scent of burning oils and candles pouring out into the hallways from them. They were an opulence set inside, while outside the commons starved. The Seven of the Red Keep seemed just as unconcerned about life outside the walls as Joff. She had wanted no part what so ever in joining their services. Her Godswood was all she needed during her stay there.

 

The only time she broke her code was when she prayed for others. At times like those it didn’t matter to whom she prayed to. In her mind, the more gods she called out to the better the chance at one of them listening to her. The night of the Balckwater she’d prayed to anyone she thought might be listening. There had been so much and so many to pray for that night.

 

The Septs of the Sisters she’d been introduced to were simpler. Harsh, stone carvings, tall as the ceilings, looked down at her in silent judgment. Sansa always felt cold and alone beneath their stares. There were no jewels; no unnecessary accessories to draw ones eyes away from the purpose of visiting the Seven. The Septs of the Sisters portrayed their deep devotion and their scorn for earthly comforts.

 

Sansa now found herself in completely different surroundings. The Quiet Isle’s Sept was indeed quiet but it didn’t feel _silent_. Quiet, welcoming, and even a tad comforting was the feel from the Brother’s place of worship. Everything was wood. Dark, stained planks and bleached white boards. A rainbow of reds, tans, creams, browns, blacks and yellows made the room feel like a living being. The statues of the Seven had been hand carved, and not by a master. There was love in the chiseled face of the Mother, strength in the hands of the Smith, and care in the eyes of the Father; all brought forth by reverent hands over the years. Names, dates and prayers were etched into every available flat service. The walls were a living history to all those who had worshiped inside them.

 

Instead of thick oils that smelled of perfume, dark cones of gummed incense burned in the Sept. The smoke made her eyes water and her nose sting but she was here with a purpose. She wasn’t going to be deterred. There was no Godswood on the Isle and Sansa wanted answers. But to whom should she pray? There were Seven of them to choose from! Her eyes darted from one to the other, settling on the Crone. Guidance and wisdom is what the old woman stood for. Sansa could surely use some of that right now.

 

On her walk to the Crone she hesitated in front of the Mother. Taking up a thin piece of reed she lit it from the tip of one candle and used the tiny flame to light another short blue candle in front of her. “Thank you for keeping him safe,” she whispered out loud but so low there was no chance for her words to be heard by anyone but the Mother. Those words deserved to have breath behind them. The Mother would know whom she spoke of; she’d prayed to her on his behalf numerous times.

 

There were but two other Brothers in the room with her. Each was settled in front of the Smith. Neither had paid her any mind at all when entered the Sept. Sansa knelt at the small alter set in front of the Crone. The wrinkled, knowing visage of a woman with power earned from doing nothing but living and observing peered down at her. Sansa lit two of the gold toned candles in front of the statue; one for her and one for Sandor. Bowing her head, Sansa let her thoughts free to Gods that surrounded her.

 

_Thank you for watching over me and for granting me safe passage thus far. Please stay with me through the last part of my journey. Help me to find the right way to reach him before I leave. Show me how to guide him. Let him speak. Please. I need to know._

 

Shifting her head to the side, she looked out the clear glass window to her left. The sun was starting its decent. She had heard the bells for the evening meal almost an hour ago but had skipped the meal. Her stomach wasn’t interested in food. It was her spirit that hungered right now for the touch of grace from any God.

 

Sansa had indeed thought of Sandor over the years. The world seemed to change around her but she now knew that to be false. It wasn’t the world that had changed. It was her. She’d grown, witnessed cruel acts and words, been the subject of some of them, and all the while she thought, _the Hound was right_. He had tried, in his aggressive, blunt way to show her, perhaps, even teach her. And she’d been too young to understand his lessons fully. 

 

Then there was the night of the Blackwater. _That_ had been terrifying. But later it had seemed sad; heartbreakingly so. The Hound had pressed himself on top of her and instead of silting her throat or taking her by force he’d cried into her open palm. It was an almost mind altering experience. She didn’t think the man capable of such depth of feeling. She’d been horribly wrong. Sansa’s logical side told her it was because no one had given the gruff warrior such kindness before; the side of her that still wanted stories to be true told her it was because he loved her.  What she came to realize most of all though was that there was a man, Sandor, buried beneath blood and iron and that somehow she had connected with him. The tears in her hand had been his, not the Hound’s.

 

Whatever his reasons, Sansa had often thought about them and that led her to think on what she thought of him. The sun creeping closer to the horizon seemed to set the land and water beneath it on fire. The room glowed red instead of green like another time the water had burned. Sansa smiled. She knew what to do.

 

……………………………………………………………………………………………..

 

Sansa had been at morning prayers and the morning meal, but Sandor couldn’t see her shape at either of the evening events. There had been no bodies to bury that day and therefore no reason for them to work together. It had enraged him. He wanted to see her again. Not speak yet, but he was fully aware of the empty feeling inside him during her absence.

 

His belly churned with nervousness, making the last meal taste overly dry and bland. A frightening thought struck him. She hadn’t left him already had she?! He sat up from the table with haste. Leaving his half eaten dinner and bowl on the table, he dashed down the walkway, out the front doors and smacked into a slim body. A female voice let out a wordless exclamation and his arm shot out automatically to grab at her.

 

Sansa’s blue eyes beamed with a silent thank you as she curtsied quickly to him. He snorted and raised his eyes brows. _Still with the courtesies, Little Bird?_   She gave him a soundless chuckled back. Then he noticed the blanket in her arms. A large, green wool throw used inside all the guest chambers. The one she carried had probably come from her own bed.

 

Tugging on his sleeve, he moved a step with her and then stopped in place. Sansa pulled harder, pointing towards the graveyard. What in Gods name did she want to do there?  There was a pull inside him to do as asked. He found himself giving in and following where she led.

 

She took them atop the highest hill within the graveyard. There was a single headstone at the peak; one of the Isle’s first hermit priests, who had lived hundreds of years ago. Sansa huffed a bit up the steep incline and altered her pace to allow him to keep up with her. Walking in a straight line was fine; hills and stairs gave him trouble. She pulled her veil from her face half way towards their goal.

 

“Will you tell me about it one day?” she asked pointing to his injured leg. He gave her a brief nod and grunt. One day, he thought, if we ever cross paths again, I’ll tell you everything. He wasn’t going to bare his soul to her only to have her leave him shortly.

 

At the top of the hill, Sansa spread her blanket and sat down with her knees drawn up to her chest. Her robes billowed out around her, covering everything but a bit of stocking at her ankles. He stood in place until she patted the spot beside her.

 

“Watch the sunset with me,” she stated, keeping her eyes on the horizon.

 

He almost shouted at her. Almost. And maybe that had been her aim all along. She was trying to goad him now! The little wretch! Where did she learn to scheme like this? Sit and watch a sunset with her! As if they were secret lovers stealing away for a romantic evening. And, fuck it all, she had him! It was either rebuke her offer and tell her off as well or sit and be silent. He practically threw himself onto the blanket, letting out an angry sigh. She wasn’t going to win words from him. Not like this.

 

Sansa only smiled and kept on watching the sun before them. After a few moments of silence she opened her mouth and started to sing. He pulled his knees to his chest as well, not daring to look at her. He realized, despite his best efforts, she’d somehow won anyway.

 

 

 

 


	7. The Maiden

The Seventh Day - The Maiden          

 

The entire morning and afternoon passed and there was no sign of her. It irritated him that she should have something other to do with her time but he knew after last night that she wouldn’t leave him without saying good-bye. That wasn’t her way. She’d taken him by the arm, tricked him into being her companion for an evening and rewarded him with a song, freely given. He wondered if she understood yet all that had been implied the night of the Blackwater. One day, he knew, he would need to make amends for that night. None of it had been called for. His want to revisit and erase that night from history itched inside him.

 

Ah, but the song. To sing to him once more, no matter how innocent the intent, under the warm glow of red, not the cold chill of green was something he’d remember and savor all his life. There was no fear, blood, vomit or steel last night. It had been a growing something between them, wool, sunlight and then stars. He heard her singing voice all day long in his mind.

 

Later on, as he walked to the main building for the final meal, he saw Sansa alongside the Elder Brother, with her two guards a few paces behind. They all met at the door, each nodding to one another. And that was that. The cover of Brother and Sister had to be maintained, more so for her sake than his. She left the hall first, after she’d eaten and he felt his heart sink. There was little chance of seeing her again that day. Perhaps she would work with him tomorrow. He _hoped_ and for once he wasn’t angry she had caused the feeling inside him. 

 

But then he found her on the porch of the main building, blanket in hand, waiting on him.

Just as she had yesterday, Sansa went first up the tallest hill set within the graveyard. At the top she spread her blanket and this time held a hand out to him. He sat but didn’t take the offered hand, choosing instead to lean back on his palms. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to touch her. Far from it. But it seemed a torture to him to suddenly have access to her voice and fingers when he knew in a week or so it would all be gone. It was better not to engage at all in his mind than to live through having something he truly desired be his, but only for a short while.

 

There was a shrill, merry chirp from behind them. The little dancing bird from days ago had found it’s way back to them. It seemed ecstatic to have found its food bearing friends. Sansa laughed, tugging the veil from her face and also removing her hood, shaking her head lightly; her red curls spilling over her shoulders.

 

Sandor felt his jaw drop. He’d forgotten how brilliant it looked in real life. He wanted to lose his fisted hands in her river of crimson. It looked like rubies, crushed and somehow spun into silk and he couldn’t help but wonder if it felt like that as well. Would his fingers tangle in it or glide through smoothly? He wished for both. If they tangled he would be stuck to her always and if the went through it smoothly he could repeat the action over and over again.

 

Then the soldier inside spoke up while he swiveled his head around to look in all directions. They were alone on their hill but far down on the paths through the graveyard they could be spotted if someone were to walk by. And the dark flames on her head could alert someone to her presence on the Isle. Whom, he didn’t know, but he trusted no one except for the Elder Brother. Not when it came to her. Reaching over, he pulled the hood back up over her head loosely. He could still catch glimpse of her tresses that way but no one else on the paths below them would be able to see much.

 

Sansa didn’t object or fight him. She too busy digging into her pockets. Her hand came back out holding two fruit filled pastries. She’d filched them from the kitchens! He wasn’t sure where this new woman had come from. She was bolder, more forward and seemed wiser as well than the Little Bird of King’s Landing. Sansa gave him one of the pastries and broke the other down the middle, nibbling at the halves while she tossed bits of it to the bird. She was still kind, eager to please and caring. The Little Bird had grown was all, not changed completely.

 

She leaned back, her legs crossed under her oversized robe. Her hand landed on top of his by chance; her palm surprisingly warm on the back of his hand. They both looked at the fingers lying together on top of scratchy green wool. Sansa didn’t pull back and he was at a loss as to how to continue. He’d waited to long. If he drew his hand back now he’d be a complete arse and if he twisted his fingers just so, to lace his with hers, he’d look a love sick fool.

 

“Do you remember the Tourney of the Hand?” Sansa quietly asked their over lapping fingers. Her eyes drifted up to find his. He gave her a nod in answer. It was hard to forget that day, or more honestly, that night. Keeping one hand on his, she reached with the other to pull his scarf away from his face. He let her. If she wanted a look at him he’d allow it though he couldn’t fathom why she would.

 

“It was so new to me,” she spoke. “All of it. It really did seem a perfect story back then. I was still too moonstruck and green to see Joffrey’s part in Lady’s death.”  One of her fingers had started to trace the veins on the back of his hand. It took effort not to twitch under her touch. “It was the first time I saw a man die in front of me, but not the last,” she sighed.

 

She stared off into the distance for a time. He thought perhaps that was the end of the memories she wished to share. But then she patted his hand and let it rest once again on top of his own.

 

“The feast was the best part. There were new dishes I’d never had before and Joff was so attentive. I felt like a real princess for a time. It seemed like a magical dream,” she continued. “And then it was over. Everyone was tired or drunk and Joff wanted nothing to do with me anymore. The dream was over.”  He didn’t like where this was going at all. He knew the next part in her story well enough and he didn’t need the reminder that he was the thing young lady’s dreams weren’t made of. Frowning, he shrugged at her; the best apology he could manage under the circumstances.

 

Sansa’s voice came out wavering, a slight shimmer of tears in her eyes. “Don’t you see,” she asked, letting the tiny pearls cling to her eyelashes.  “A dream can’t possibly last. A dream isn’t _real_ , Sandor. You are. The dream stopped and _you_ were there. Every time my eyes open in this life there you are, still the same, strong and true. Dreams aren’t what I want anymore.”

 

“Little Bird?” he breathed, not able to stop himself from saying her name after such an outpouring of emotion, nor keep the struggle between optimism and apprehension from his voice. It felt like the rush before battle, saying her secret name out loud.

 

She smiled at him. Sansa Stark, looked him straight in the eye and smiled at him. It was brighter and warmer than any he’d ever dreamed of. Perhaps she was right about dreams. Her face moved towards his ever so slowly, her eyes locked on his lips. His heart speed up to a break neck pace. She was going to _kiss_ him. Sansa was going to make all of his fantasies reality and he sat shock still, barely breathing.

 

Her lips were gentle, full and so very soft, as he’d imagined they would be. What he couldn’t have imagined was the way it would make him feel. There was a stir of arousal. Of course there was; she was woman and he a man but there also came a wave of something else. A need to protect her, keep her close, make her happy and find some way to love her as she should be loved.

 

Minutes passed. Fucking _minutes_ , not seconds, she remained connected to him! She closed her eyes but he kept his open. There was no way in all the Seven Kingdoms he was going to shut his eyes to the sight of his Little Bird, with her fiery red hair, seeking out a kiss from his strange lips. He knew the cruel twist of tissue that clung to the corner of his mouth, preventing him from feeling half her movements. Sansa seemed to be completely unaware as she moved her mouth against his with more pressure and purpose. That was permission, his brain screamed at him. One of his hands strayed up to the back of her neck, holding her in place and allowing him to tilt his head and start exploring her. Her lips parted a fraction and his tongue darted out to find her own. The touch was brief but Sansa drew back with haste. Her face was flushed and her lips swollen. His cock took interest and his heart clenched within his chest.  She looked confused.

 

“Sorry,” he started, “Did you not wa-“

 

He was silenced by the clash of her teeth against his own. He could taste blood from his bruised lip. She’d been rough with him! It only fed his growing need to posses her in every way; love and lust, kindness to win her over and barely contained power to claim. There was pressure under his ruined lip, on the burnt half of his chin. She was holding it between her thumb and finger. She was touching his scars! He growled, ducking his head and hearing a loud pop as their lips disconnected. Her hand still on him, and her feather light kisses on his forehead, he drew in a deep breath.

 

“Don’t go,” he blurted out, all rasp and not one bit of gentleness in his declaration.

 

“I have to,” Sansa answered, pushing at his chin to get him to look at her. She seemed sad for having to tell him so.

 

There was a long pause before he spoke again. “I don’t want you to,” he tried with more truth and less rasp.

 

Sansa’s eyes were soft. A mixture of both worry and something gentle he couldn’t place. Her other hand had crept up to his good jaw and he leaned into the touch despite himself.

 

“Then come with me,” she whispered.

 

 


End file.
